


Don't Look Away (compare to chapters 12 and 13 in full version)

by I_am_lampy



Series: The "It's All Fine" Collected Works Deluxe Edition [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Declarations Of Love, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, non-graphic descriptions of rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-11-29 02:05:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11430894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_lampy/pseuds/I_am_lampy
Summary: Sherlock is a little worse for the wear than he was eighteen months ago, but he's still the same man. He's not broken nor is he damaged and John needs to see that his wounds are outside, not inside. Because what he carries inside him isn't a wound—it's relief, pure and simple.





	1. Chapter 1

**Friday, 22 March 2013**

_Danilo holds the gun against Sherlock's chin and then slides it towards his mouth. He presses the gun against Sherlock's lip hard enough to cut it and Sherlock tastes blood._

_"Do you have a lover back home, British? Do you like sucking his cock? I bet you get a wet dick every time you think of it. Here, I have a cock for you to suck," he says and presses the gun into Sherlock's mouth._

_Sherlock tastes blood, gun oil, and metal and smells the sweat of Danilo's body. His head is almost completely shaved and Sherlock notices the strands of gray amongst the dark blond strands. He thinks of John and then pushes that thought deep into the back of his mind palace. The last thing he wants is John to be touched by this disgusting place, this disgusting man._

_Danilo bends towards Sherlock like he's going to tell him a secret._

_"Suck it good, faggot, or I'll fuck you with it."_

_So, Sherlock does the only thing he can—he fellates the gun._

_"You don't sound like you're enjoying that, British! I want to hear you moan. Why don't you touch yourself, too? Show me you love it."_

_Sherlock closes his eyes and when he opens them he sees John standing above him._

_"No, not here!" Sherlock moans. He doesn't want John in this dirty prison with him!_

_Then Sherlock realizes they're not in the prison anymore. Sherlock is sitting on John's bed in his room on the second floor. John is kneeling between his thighs._

_"Like this," John whispers and wraps his mouth around Sherlock's penis, which is fully hard. Sherlock thrusts into John's mouth with a grunt._

_"I'm sorry!" he cries, worried he's hurt John with his thoughtless act._

_"I want to hear you come," John says, even though his mouth is currently full of Sherlock's penis._

_"I can't," Sherlock moans. "It's wrong. You're not supposed to touch yourself like that."_

_Sherlock's not sure where that came from because he can't remember anyone ever telling him he couldn't touch himself. In fact, his parents enthusiastically encouraged a mortified Sherlock to "learn what arouses you." He remembers Mycroft laughing when he heard the story._

_Mycroft doesn't laugh, though, so who's laughter does he hear?_

_John's hands are sliding over his naked back and his lips are pressed against Sherlock's. This time, John kisses him on purpose instead of just putting up with Sherlock's assault on him._

_"I shouldn't have done that," Sherlock says to John, who's now standing above him._

_"Take off your clothes," John says._

_"My clothes are off," Sherlock replies, confused._

_"You're naked, but you're not transparent," John says and he looks angry. In fact, his face is beginning to turn red. He's enraged. "I told you not to lie to me! All you do is lie!"_

_"No, that's not true! I love you, John! I wanted you to see me as a man and not as something broken and fragile."_

_"Oh, Sherlock," John says, his voice sounding tender. "You've always been broken and fragile. That's why I love you."_

_"I don't understand," Sherlock says, pleading._

_John backhands him, his eyes so hateful. Sherlock's eyes squeeze shut in defense and when he opens them again, it's not John, but Danilo._

_"Stupid British," Danilo says, with a malicious sneer. "You're never going home to John. You're mine now."_

_Sherlock splinters into a broken image of himself, but he hears John somewhere behind Danilo and he lets his heart hope. John says, it's just a night—_

"—mare, Sherlock, wake up!"

Sherlock's eyes fly open and he lifts his head. He's lying on his side, his hands balled into a fist. He lets out a tremulous sigh that turns into a sob when he sees that he really _is_ home, in his bedroom, at 221B Baker Street.

"Sherlock," John says quietly and Sherlock pushes himself carefully to his knees to see John kneeling next to the bed. John moves to take his hands and Sherlock grips them so hard, he can see John wince.

" _John_ ," Sherlock says. In his mouth, the name is a lament and he loosens his hold on John's hands so he can cradle John's head in his hands. He brings their foreheads together and repeats John's name over and over until the nightmare begins to ease out of his bones. John reaches up to cup his cheeks and he murmurs _it's okay, you're okay, I'm right here, I'm not leaving, you're safe_.

John's breath is sour and Sherlock thinks _morning breath_.

"I woke you," Sherlock says hoarsely. They're still holding onto each other, heads pressed together.

"It's okay," John says and Sherlock knows it's not a platitude—he genuinely means it.

"Are you in pain?" John asks.

Sherlock does a body check and discovers that, yes, actually, he's in a great deal of pain. "Yes," he says and smiles wanly.

John helps Sherlock stand. "I'll go get your pain pills. You're soaked in sweat. Do you want to change your clothes?"

"I can't do it—I need help with my shirt. My shoulder and elbow," he says and his eyes slide away, not wanting to meet John's.

"I'll help you, let me just get your pain pills and I'll be back."

Sherlock looks up in surprise at John's retreating back. He didn't think John would want to help him get dressed ( _undressed_ ) considering what happened last night. Was it even last night? Sherlock looks around the room and sees an alarm clock on the bedside table. It's 5:34 a.m.

Sherlock moves slowly over to his duffel bag, which John left on the settee last night. He picks through it for a t-shirt and pajama bottoms. He wants out of these fleece bottoms because they're hot. Underneath, he can feel his pants are soaked in sweat. He doesn't bother pulling a fresh pair of pants out of his bag. The less clothing he has to wear, the less he has to depend on John to get him dressed and undressed (and the less opportunity he has to do what he did last night.)

Speaking of last night, what did it mean? John has a tendency to treat uncomfortable situations in which he is involved as though they didn't happen. When it involves other people, though, he can gossip like a little old lady.

"Here we go," John says, coming back into the room with a glass of water and two of the pain pills. These are the ones John has from his med kit and not the ones from the doctors at the British embassy.

Sherlock obediently swallows the pills and then he puts the pajama bottoms and t-shirt on the bed.

"I was thinking," John says, eyeballing the t-shirt and pajamas as though he's afraid they might jump out and bite him. "It might be easier if you were to wear a button down shirt. It would make it easier to get in and out of your shirt and give you some independence. You'd have to leave the cuffs unbuttoned because of your wrist, but you could roll up the sleeves. It won't be very fashionable wearing a button down with pajama bottoms, but, um, I'm sure you don't want me having to dress and undress you all the time."

John tries for a smile, and when that fails, rubs his hand along the back of his head.

"Okay," Sherlock says because what he wants to say is, _I want you to spend the rest of our lives undressing me!_

"I'll need to go upstairs and drag some of your clothes out of storage so for now, let's just get you into your pajama bottoms. Do you think you can sleep without a t-shirt on for now? I'd really like you to go back to sleep."

"I don't think I can," Sherlock says. "Go back to sleep, that is."

"I want you to try," John responds. He tilts his head in a way that Sherlock long ago learned strongly implied _or else_ . John's Captain Watson persona shouldn't be arousing to Sherlock—someone who never follows orders as a matter of principle, even if said order is to his benefit—but it is. Sherlock remembers Baskerville and John pulling rank on the young soldier. _That's an order, Corporal_. Sherlock had looked askance at him, and experienced one of the first moments of desire that left him breathless.

John helps Sherlock out of his t-shirt and then puts his dressing gown around his shoulders and helps him stand. John pulls Sherlock's bottoms and pants down at the same time. Sherlock's hands are on John's shoulders. His desire to run his hands through John's hair is so strong that his jaw is clenched with the effort of resisting.

While he forces himself not to touch John, John has Sherlock's bottoms up in no time at all.

"Do you need my help lying down?" John asks when he gets back to his feet.

"No, I, uh, I need to use the loo," Sherlock says. John opens his mouth, but Sherlock cuts him off. "I can manage on my own."

"I'll wait here until you're done," John says.

Sherlock makes his way to the _en suite_ and gingerly removes the wad of gauze between his arse cheeks. He needs to replace it but he doesn't know how he can get to the kitchen and find the gauze without John noticing.

He examines the gauze. It's wet with sweat and slightly pink with watery discharge. The doctor told him to expect it. Suddenly, Sherlock freezes. He'd forgotten about the medical brief. The last Sherlock saw, it was sitting on the kitchen table and John hadn't yet read it.

Sherlock pulls his pajama bottoms up as quickly as he can with a sprained wrist and broken elbow then uses the other door to shuffle into the kitchen. He grabs the brief and finds a roll of gauze as well. His heart is pounding, but he feels a surge of victory when he makes it into the loo before John sees. He uses the toilet, folds up another wad of gauze and puts it between his cheeks, then pulls his bottoms up and washes his hands. He hides the folder under the sink behind the plunger and a box of baking soda. The gauze he puts on the top shelf of the linen closet. He would kill for a proper shower.

He opens the door back to the bedroom to see John sitting on his bed deep in thought.

"Hey," John says, jumping to his feet. "Do you need help getting in bed?"

"There's a bag of toiletries in my duffel bag. Can you get it for me? I want to brush my teeth."

John grabs it and hands it to Sherlock, but doesn't immediately let go.

"You can take a shower and shave later, but for now I want you to go back to sleep. You're going to get at least eight hours of sleep a night for the next month, maybe longer."

"Yes, Dr. Watson," Sherlock says with a wry grin.

"Okay, well, just see that you mind me," John says and grins back.

John favors Sherlock with his full wattage grin, the one that shows all his teeth and Sherlock feels the weight of the last eighteen months drop away. It's not so much that it _disappears_. But Sherlock has had almost two years learning what it means to be John Watson's friend, and he knows in his gut that John will share his burden.

The problem is that John can't share Sherlock's burdens unless Sherlock tells him what they are. After last night, though, he's even more positive he doesn't want John to know all the details of what happened in Serbia. He can't stand the thought of John having pity for him, or treating him like he's damaged.

In Serbia, the sadistic guard Danilo reduced Sherlock to meat and blood and bones and then tried to take that, too. But putting his cock in Sherlock's arse didn't give him the right to own any part of Sherlock and that includes his mind. Does he need time to heal? Yes. But Danilo did not break him, the guards did not break him, the freezing winter, the belt lashes, the lice, being used as a human toilet— _none of it_ broke him.

Sherlock is a little worse for the wear than he was eighteen months ago, but he's still the same man. He's not broken nor is he damaged and John needs to see that his wounds are outside, not inside. Because what he carries inside him isn't a wound—it's relief, pure and simple. He knows he'll be plagued by anxiety attacks like the one he had yesterday when he first came home and nightmares like the one he's just woken up from.

But the suggestion that being raped twice has made Sherlock hate or be afraid of sex is laughable. John, though, because he's a doctor and caretaker, would say Sherlock is minimizing it. He would accuse Sherlock of trying to "tough it out" emotionally in the same way he always used to ignore physical pain and needs.

There are two things Serbia taught him—one, don't take sleep or food for granted. Two—he can be hurt here just as easily as he was there. The difference is that here he's not alone. He'll never be alone so long as he has John.

So the question is—how does he get John without resorting to dishonesty and, once he has him, how does he keep him? Sherlock isn't looking to undermine the boyfriend or seduce John through manipulation. He _wants_ to be open and honest with John, but the truth about the rape isn't something he can share with John until he knows, for sure, that John won't use it as an excuse to avoid a romantic relationship with Sherlock. He knows John better than John knows himself, he thinks, and John wants him. John _wants_ him in an intractable way. (Sherlock understands the feeling because he feels the same for John). The minute John thinks Sherlock is too fragile, is the minute John decides that wanting Sherlock is an offense rather than a gift.

Sherlock will do everything he can to make sure that doesn't happen.

~*~

After Sherlock brushes his teeth, John helps him get back into bed on his side. Sherlock looks sleepy, which is good. Tonight, John will give him five milligrams of melatonin, sublingually, and that will help keep him on a regular sleeping schedule. It feels almost like caring for an infant the way he's worked out eating and sleeping schedules.

John won't be going back to sleep. Once he wakes up, he's up for the day, so he quietly pulls clean clothes out of his dresser and wardrobe and then sneaks out of the bedroom. He has things to do this morning, so an early start gives him time to relax before his busy day begins. John showers, keeping as quiet as possible so as not to wake Sherlock. Then he goes into the kitchen and makes himself a cup of tea.

As he's waiting for the kettle to click off, John thinks of Gerald at home alone in his bed and there's a sudden spike of pain in his chest. He misses Gerald, terribly. Most of all, Gerald would be able to advise him on what to do with Sherlock, on how to handle the—whatever it was—that happened between them last night.

John takes his tea and sits down at the kitchen table to drink it, staring off into space. He has yesterday's paper spread out before him, but he's not reading it. He's remembering every detail of last night (and trying not to get hard while he's at it.)

 _I missed you_.

_Does it feel good? I want you to feel good._

Last night, he hadn't really paid attention to anything Sherlock was saying. His body, and therefore his mind, were entirely focused on what Sherlock was _doing_ . (With his hands and his lips and his fingers, _oh god_ .) He tries to recall the _words_ Sherlock spoke.

It all comes back in a roar.

_I'm not confused. Kiss me._

_Just this once, please, let me have this._

_You're mine. It never should've been him._

Just like that, John knows what last night was really about. He didn't think his heart could break into any more pieces, but knowing what Sherlock was really trying to tell him just about does him in. Tears flood his eyes.

Sherlock, away from home for eighteen months, the last month spent being tortured, comes home to find his best friend in a very serious relationship with someone. Sherlock, needing the comfort of home, _needing_ John, is worried that John won't have time for him any more, maybe that John will move out. So he does the only thing he can think of. He tries to seduce John to make him stay.

_Does he make you feel like this? Because I can, too._

_I know you want me, John._

_I want you to love me, too._

Sherlock was trying to tell him that whatever Gerald gives John, Sherlock can give it, too, because he was counting on having John's full attention when he came back. He was counting on the security and comfort that John has always given him.

Sherlock was willing to seduce John in order to keep their friendship intact. He's confused right now and desperate to maintain the _status quo_ and the _status quo_ is John, unattached. John can just imagine what was going through Sherlock's head. _If it's sex you need, John, I'll give you sex, but please don't abandon me because of him_.

John doesn't know if his heartbreak is because Sherlock felt he _had_ to do that to keep John's friendship or if it's because Sherlock still only sees him as a friend.

John grabs his pad of paper and a pen and starts writing his list for things he needs Gerald to pick up. The embassy doctors gave Sherlock ten days of an antibiotic because of all the open wounds. It's the same thing John would have prescribed. The anti-fungal, antibiotic creams, and lidocaine is fine so John won't need to change any of those.

One of the prescriptions John gave Gerald for Sherlock is for 2 mg clonazepam that dissolves on the tongue and is, therefore, quick acting. The other prescription was for 5 mg liquid melatonin to be administered sublingually. That, too, is quick acting.

As he told Sherlock the day before, John's responsibility extends beyond just treating his injuries—John has taken on the responsibility for Sherlock's health. There are many things John has thought of that he needs to restore Sherlock to health, including helping him gain weight. John starts writing things down.

John's immediate priorities are to fatten Sherlock up and get him pumped full of as many vitamins as he can. To that end, he intends to make three smoothies a day with a combination of fruit, milk, flax or hemp seeds, frozen fruit, vitamin and phytoplankton powders. To make it palatable, John will add plenty of liquid cane sugar.

He checks the kitchen clock. It's almost seven. He has plenty of time to read over the medical brief the embassy gave to Sherlock to see if he needs to add anything else to the list before he texts it to Gerald.

It's only then that he realizes the folder is no longer on the table. He didn't touch it, which means Sherlock must have stuck it back in his duffel bag. John doesn't want to go in there and wake him up so he lets it go for now. He sends Gerald a text message with the list.

 **John:** Good morning, my love. I have a long list of things I need you to pick up before you come over.

 **Gerald:** Good morning to you, too, sexy. I missed you last night. I hate sleeping alone.

 **John:** I know, me too. If I can get him settled in today, I might be able to go 'round your flat tomorrow afternoon for a few hours.

 **Gerald:** I'm fine, you don't need to rush things. He needs you right now. So give me this huge list you've written down.

 **John:** You'll have to go to the health food store for some of these.

  * protein powder
  * vitamin E oil
  * those probiotic gummy vitamins I got for you when I hit your lip
  * at the health food store, they have a prenatal vitamin powder that can be mixed in with water or juice—get that kind
  * flax seeds
  * phytoplankton powder
  * hemp seeds
  * almond milk
  * coconut milk
  * natural liquid cane sugar
  * full fat vanilla yogurt
  * whole milk
  * eggs
  * cheese
  * whole grain bread
  * spinach
  * chocolate biscuits



**John:** I think that's it for today

 **Gerald:** That's not so bad! I like the whole thing where you're like "healthy stuff, healthy stuff, healthy stuff. Oh! And chocolate biscuits."

 **John** : lol. He likes them. Has a bit of a sweet tooth. Oh, and can I borrow your Magic Bullet to make the smoothies for him?

 **Gerald:** Absolutely.

 **John:** Thanks. Don't forget the prescriptions.

 **Gerald:** I won't forget! Love you. See you at noon.

~*~

At precisely eight a.m., John gets a phone call from Mycroft.

"Hello, John," he says when John answers the phone.

"You're a bastard, Mycroft Holmes!" John hisses, trying not to yell because Sherlock is still sleeping.

"I do apologize for the dishonesty, John. It was necessary."

"Whatever. I'm too tired to be mad," John says. "What do you want?"

"Is my brother with you?"

"Um, _yeah_. I thought you sent him here?"

"No, I meant, is he _in the room_ with you. In other words, can he overhear our conversation?"

"No, he's still sleeping."

"Good. I wanted to be able to speak to you privately. Firstly, I never intended to put the onus of caring for my brother on your shoulders, so I would like to verify that you are indeed willing to act as his doctor until his wounds are healed?"

"Of course I am, you cockhead. You think I'm going to send him off for someone else to treat?"

"I'm asking because there are nursing services that can help with the burden of aftercare for his wounds."

"I think we'll be fine."

"That's a relief to hear." Mycroft pauses and then clears his throat. "What has he told you about the time he spent imprisoned in Serbia?"

"He didn't tell me anything. I asked the questions I needed to ask in order to treat his wounds and then I fed him, gave him his meds and put him to bed."

"Ah. Well." There's another pause. "As a sufferer of post-traumatic stress disorder, I'm sure you realize my brother will likely experience many of the same symptoms you had."

"Yes, Mycroft. I'm a doctor, not an idiot. I wrote a prescription for a mild benzodiazepine to help with anxiety attacks and melatonin to help him sleep. Why don't you get to your point?"

"I believe my brother needs to speak with a therapist about what he endured in Serbia. Did you read the medical brief?"

"No, it's in Sherlock's duffel bag and I didn't want to wake him up because the bag's in my bedroom."

"I'm not sure how to put this delicately. Did Sherlock mention his sexual assault?"

"Yes, he did," John says.

"Really?" Mycroft asks, the word full of surprise. "All of it? Including what happened with the young guard?"

John's brain starts sorting through everything he and Sherlock spoke about and comes up blank on the words "the young guard." John wants to know what Mycroft feels is so important, but he doesn't want to betray Sherlock's trust by gossiping with his brother.

"I only asked if he had been sexually assaulted and he told me yes and we talked about testing for STIs and that was it."

"And you don't think my brother would benefit from seeing a therapist?"

"Because some guy forced him to suck his dick? No. I think some strong mouthwash is all Sherlock needs. He's not going to be damaged by something like that."

“He didn't tell you everything, did he?"

John gets that feeling in his gut that he often gets when he's around a Holmes brother. It's a feeling that says _you are the dumbest person in the room so keep your mouth shut._

"My priority last night was to look over him and get him settled. He was exhausted and in pain. I'm sure over the next few days and weeks, as he gets stronger, he'll be able to discuss those things. For the moment though, no, I don't think he would benefit from a therapist. Right now I'm going to feed him up, keep his pain and anxiety to a minimum, make sure he gets plenty of sleep and that he feels safe surrounded by the walls of 221B. If I begin to see signs that he needs psychological help, then I'll make that happen."

"John, I think you may be minimizing—"

"Mycroft, I thought you and I had begun to understand each other and—dare I say it—almost became friends. But right now, you're on my shit list and the last thing you should be doing is telling me how to do my job as Sherlock's doctor. So, with all due respect, good-fucking-bye."

A few seconds after John ends the call, he gets a text message:

 **Mycroft Holmes:** All I ask is that you read the medical brief. It was part of the overall debriefing and it also has the doctor's notes from infirmary at the British embassy in Belgrade. I only want you to have all the information, John. My intention is not to gossip about my brother or question your abilities.

 **John:** As soon as Sherlock wakes up, I'll make sure and read the brief.

 **Mycroft Holmes:** Thank you, John. Despite what you may think, I love my little brother and if I have to put his care into someone else's hands, you're the only person I would feel comfortable doing so.

 **John:** I'm still pissed off you lied to me.

 **Mycroft Holmes:** As well you should be. Good day, John.

~*~


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John, this is—please try to be understanding with him," Mycroft says carefully. "I don't want to betray his trust by telling you what he's hiding."
> 
> "But you know," John asks with a frown. "I mean, you know what he's hiding."

* * *

After he gets off the phone with Mycroft, John goes upstairs and sorts through the boxes of Sherlock's things he and Mrs. Hudson kept. He brings out four of the oldest button-down shirts he can find, ones he thinks Sherlock won't mind being stained by the greasy anti-fungal cream. While he's there he grabs the seven pairs of pajama bottoms he finds, as well as several pairs of cashmere socks.

Loaded down with clothes, he goes downstairs to find Sherlock in the bathroom.

"Good morning!" John calls through the bathroom door on the way to his bedroom. He sets the clothes on the settee next to Sherlock's duffel bag and, then, remembering the medical brief, he searches through Sherlock's duffel bag but finds nothing but clothes. Maybe it fell on the kitchen floor under the table and John's just been too deep in thought to notice?

So, he goes into the kitchen and searches under the table and chairs, the worktops, and the small attached breakfast table where they keep the microwave. ( _They_ —he's so glad there's a _they_ at Baker Street again.)

"Good morning," Sherlock says, shuffling into the kitchen.

He's still only in his bottoms and he has his robe hanging off his bony shoulders. John can't wait until Gerald gets there so he can stuff Sherlock with some calories. Talk about being a British mum.

"I'm glad you got a few more hours of sleep. Tea?" John asks, putting on the kettle.

"Please."

"You hungry?"

"Not really," Sherlock says.

"Too bad," John says. "You have to eat." Sherlock gives him a sleepy smile and John grins back.

"What's your pain level on a scale of one to ten?" John asks.

Sherlock takes a moment to think. "About a six."

"I'll give you two ibuprofens. I don't want to give you narcotic pain medicine more often than every six hours. Speaking of which, should I be worried about addiction?"

"I don't know," Sherlock says.

"Well, we'll cross that road when we come to it. For now, pain management and nutrition are my priorities. I'm afraid it's porridge again this morning."

While the kettle boils, John brings down a bowl and gets out the oatmeal, milk, sugar and brown sugar. He pulls a dish of butter out of the fridge. In silence, he makes Sherlock's porridge, and tea for both of them. He puts plenty of butter and brown sugar in the porridge and pours Sherlock a glass of milk.

"While you're eating, I'm going to outline your treatment here at home," John begins. "Like I said, my two priorities are pain management and feeding you up. The injuries I'm most concerned with are your broken and cracked ribs. The lacerations were stitched up neatly and will heal quickly. In fact, today I'll be taking some of the stitches on the smaller ones out and maybe even some of the bigger ones, depending on the tensile strength of the skin.

"As far as pain management goes, every six hours I'll give you two dihydrocodeineone. Three hours after each dose of the codeine, I'll give you four hundred milligrams of ibuprofen. That way you're getting pain medication every three hours. The ibuprofen will help with your wrist, elbow, and shoulder as well. Right now, though, it's your ribs that are hindering your movement so much. I hate to wake you up at night to give you pain medicine, so I'll skip the ibuprofen at night, but I _will_ wake you up for the dihydrocodeinone.

"I've sent a list to Gerald of things to get. I'm going to make you a smoothie three times a day, in addition to what you eat. Each one will have a combination of protein powder, vitamin powder, flax or hemp seeds, phytoplankton powder, frozen fruit, and coconut or almond milk. I want you to gain at least two pounds a week until you're closer to one-sixty. I'm gonna get you on the scale here in a few minutes to see exactly how much you weigh."

John stops talking at the glazed look in Sherlock's eyes so he tries a different tactic.

"Okay, here's the bottom line. You'll eat or drink what I tell you, go to sleep when I tell you and take all your medicine the way I tell you."

"You told me all that yesterday," Sherlock says with a twitch of his lips.

"Yeah, well, you're a troublesome patient. Speaking of which, have you seen the medical brief you brought with you? I thought I'd left it on the table, but it's not there. Did you move it?"

"Did you check in your room?" Sherlock asks, looking John directly in the eyes.

John freezes. There's only two reasons why Sherlock looks someone directly in the eye and maintains eye contact. The first reason—when he wants to intimidate someone.

The second—when he's lying.

John relaxes his posture so he doesn't give himself away. "Yeah, I can check up there in a bit. Oh, your brother called me this morning."

"Oh, yeah?" Sherlock asks, adopting that bored tone of voice he uses for anything regarding his brother. _I'm going to pretend like I don't care just to spite him._

"He seems to think you haven't told me everything that happened in Serbia. He mentioned a young guard."

"He did?" Sherlock says casually, but John sees the way Sherlock's eyes flick back up to meet John's.

"You promised not to lie to me," John says, frustration creeping into his voice.

"I _didn't_ lie," Sherlock says with a roll of his eyes.

"If you _failed to tell me_ of even one injury, then it's lying, Sherlock. Don't pretend to be obtuse."

"It's not anything important, John, and it's an injury I can easily take care of myself."

"So you did lie," John says with a snort of frustration. He shakes his head and glares at Sherlock. "Tell me right now or so help me God, Sherlock I will call your brother and ask _him_."

"Oh, _please_. Empty threats aren't going to get you anywhere," Sherlock says disdainfully.

John steps over to the table next to his chair and picks up his phone. He makes sure Sherlock can see him. He pulls Mycroft's info up on his phone and rings him.

"How can I help you, John?" Mycroft asks politely.

"I'm having some difficulties with Sherlock's treatment. I agreed to be Sherlock's doctor during his recovery _only if_ —"

"Oh, for God's sake, John, you're acting like a—" Sherlock interrupts.

"—he was completely honest with me about his injuries." John talks over Sherlock's protests, "but he's just admitted to lying about an injury that he, for some reason, doesn't want me to know about. _And_ I know he hid the brief somewhere."

Sherlock throws his spoon down in disgust and John knows Sherlock wishes he could make a grand exit to show his disdain, but instead he pushes to his feet with a wince and grunt of pain and then slowly shuffles towards the sitting room.

"I see," Mycroft says, but his voice says he doesn't see. "Is Sherlock in the room with you right now?"

"If you're asking if he's within hearing range, then, yes, he's in the room with me. He's glaring at me right now actually."

"John, this is—please try to be understanding with him," Mycroft says carefully. "I don't want to betray his trust by telling you what he's hiding."

"But you know," John asks with a frown. "I mean, you know what he's hiding."

"Yes," Mycroft says simply.

"Let me guess, you're going to hide it from me, too." It's not a question.

"It's not my place to tell you anything except what you need to know to be responsible for his physical health. However, as I said this morning, his emotional recovery needs to be put in the hands of a professional, specifically a counselor or therapist."

"Okay," John says, drawing the word out. He feels a little lost. He's never known the Holmes brothers to be on the same side and yet Mycroft is flat out telling John that he won't tell him what Sherlock is hiding.

"John, I know you're capable of observing carefully and inferring conclusions from what you have observed. If I'm not mistaken, you did a full physical exam last night, is that right?"

"Yeah," John says. Without realizing it, he's crept further into the kitchen and out of Sherlock's line of sight. He's standing next to the fridge in front of the window and Sherlock's in his chair in the living room.

"Then you saw his entire body, including his genitals?"

"Yeah," John says again, blushing beet red at hearing Mycroft say the word _genitals_. He fights off the anxious urge to giggle.

"Did you look in every orifice?"

"Briefly, yes, just to check for infection."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, John, how many orifices does Sherlock have?"

"Look, just fucking tell me what he's hiding! At this point, you're only one step away from telling me anyway."

"Just answer the question, John."

"Fine. Nose, mouth, ears—" John stops abruptly as realization washes over him.

"Hopefully Sherlock will forgive me for this abuse of his trust, but he's in love with you, John, and that's why he lied by omission. Now, for God's sake, go talk to him and try not to be condescending or pitying."

"In love with me?" John asks in a whisper, frowning in disbelief. "You're joking."

"Honestly, Dr. Watson, your willful ignorance never fails to astound me. Interpret his actions regarding you as you will. I, on the other hand, have observed how my brother interacts with you objectively, and have come to the conclusion that he's in love with you. I'm done with this conversation. Good day."

Just like that, John is looking at his phone like it has personally insulted him. Then he gears himself up for discussing with Sherlock whatever is wrong with his arse.

~*~

"I'm sorry," is the first thing John says when he sits down in his chair across from Sherlock. His voice is soft and _pitying_.

Sherlock's vibrating with a combination of rage and shame. He'd almost gotten away with it. Of course, hiding the brief was very childish, but he was desperate.

"I'm not angry at you for lying," John says kindly.

"Don't—" Sherlock spits out. "Don't you fucking dare feel sorry for me!"

Sherlock rarely curses. He thinks it indicates a lack of imagination. So, when Sherlock uses a curse word it makes a big impact. Sherlock is happy to see that John's eyes are open wide in astonishment. He looks on the verge of saying something so Sherlock decides to just get it over with.

"When I arrived at the embassy infirmary, I had an anal abscess as a result of an anal fissure received during my imprisonment. It was drained and stitched with dissolvable sutures. I saw no point in embarrassing both of us by having you check between my arse cheeks to see that it was healing properly when I myself am perfectly capable of caring for it. That is all."

Sherlock wants to stand up and walk off, but his body hurts and now his heart does, too. If John hasn't connected the dots yet, he will eventually and then whatever plans Sherlock had for his relationship with John will go out the window.

Sherlock stands carefully, about to head for his— _John's, it's John's now—_ bedroom, but John stands up much quicker and moves to block Sherlock.

"What happened with the young guard, Sherlock," John asks.

"It's really none of your business, John," Sherlock says spitefully.

John gets in his face and stabs his finger in the air. "If you still want me to be your doctor, then we need to _make_ it my business. Otherwise, find yourself a new doctor."

"What does it matter _why_ I was injured? You don't need to know that to treat it!" Sherlock shouts.

"You're right, Sherlock, I don't," John says, smiling his dangerous smile. "But I was under the impression I was more than just your doctor. Or even more than just your flatmate. I guess I was wrong."

John puts his phone in his pocket, stalks towards the door to the flat and pulls his coat off its hook. He pushes his arms into it and then zips it up.

"I don't want to fight with you, Sherlock. I'm going out for a couple of hours. Text me if you need me."

~*~

Out on the pavement, John checks the time on his phone. It's only a little after nine. He walks towards the Baker Street station so he can call Gerald without Sherlock watching him out of the front windows of the flat.

"Hey, sexy," Gerald says when he answers the phone.

John almost breaks down in tears hearing Gerald's voice. "Where are you?"

"Home," Gerald says. "Why?"

"Can I come over for an hour or so?"

"You can't leave him alone!" Gerald says, sounding scandalized.

"He's not going to die if I'm away from him for a couple of hours."

"John! You have to go back _right_ _now_! You _cannot_ leave him alone!" Gerald says with strident conviction.

"Why not?" John asks, feeling flustered and defensive at the vehemence in Gerald's voice.

"John, as a therapist, I'm telling you that you have to go back. You cannot leave him alone. He spent a month all alone in a prison being tortured. He was probably also subjected to sexual assault—"

"Yeah, I figured all that on my own, Gerald! I'm not an idiot."

"I didn't say you were an idiot. Well, _now_ I'm saying you're an idiot! I'm hanging up. Call me after you alleviate the _anxiety attack_ he's probably having right now. Go!"

For the second time, John stares at his phone like it has personally insulted him. That's two people who have hung up on him because he's not been fair to Sherlock or has somehow let him down. Okay, then. John knows he can't help Sherlock until Sherlock tells him what, exactly, he needs help with. So. Time to get to the bottom of this and find out what Sherlock is hiding.

~*~


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

"John, you came back," Sherlock says tremulously when John walks into the flat. Sherlock's head is pleading _don't leave me don't leave me don't leave me_.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John says as he takes off his coat and hangs it up. "I never should've walked out like that."

Sherlock, grateful for John's quick reappearance, is at a loss for what to say. He wants to run to John and throw his arms around him and pour out his gratitude and love.

"Tea?" Sherlock asks instead.

John is already walking into the kitchen and filling up the kettle when Sherlock asks.

"I'm on it. You sit and rest," John says.

Sherlock hears the water running, then John setting the kettle on the heating coil and then the click as he turns it on. He walks back into the sitting room drying his hands on a dishtowel.

"I know the words  _we need to talk_ are ominous, but we do need to talk. I want to help you."

"You can't help me with everything," Sherlock says. His heart is racing. He rubs his hand over his mouth and wipes sweat off his upper lip. Now that he’s noticed it, he feels the dampness of perspiration everywhere.

"You don't know that," John says, leaning against the wall separating the kitchen from the sitting room. He looks down at his feet and Sherlock waits for him to speak.

"Okay," Sherlock says when John doesn't say anything else.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm your friend, yeah?" John stops abruptly and then scrubs his hands over his face.

"Yes," Sherlock says.  _So much more, John, so much more_.

"The thing is," John says and stops again. "I know we're men, and British men in particular don't like talking about their feelings, but you and I—we've lived on the edge of death together, Sherlock. After all that we've been through, do you really not trust me?"

"I trust you completely, John," Sherlock answers truthfully. "It's not your trustworthiness in question on this matter."

"Then what is?" John asks, glaring at Sherlock with pursed lips.

"I don't want you to see me as broken. Damaged.  _Fragile_. I'm still a fully functioning man with the same brilliant mind I've always had. I know you and you would handle me with delicacy, like I might break. I don't want that."

"Sherlock, whether you want to admit it or not, you  _are_ broken. And damaged. And fragile." John walks closer until he's standing right over Sherlock. "Physically and emotionally you are damaged and fragile. That's  _why_ I want so badly to help you. I  _know_ the man you are and I want to help you bring that man back. Will you, please-- Sherlock, no more secrets. Right?"

Sherlock feels his stomach drop even though he knew this was coming. In the kitchen, the kettle clicks off, but John ignores it.

"Hm," Sherlock says noncommittally, his expression pained. He shifts his eyes to the side and shrugs.

John gets a chair from the desk and brings it up right next to Sherlock's. He sits down and lays his hand on Sherlock's left forearm and squeezes it gently and Sherlock feels his defenses breaking down. He opens his mouth to say something like  _stop coddling me_ , but what comes out is a confession. He tells John everything—about the abuse, the deprivation, the box, the rapes—all of it except Zivko.

There's silence for a few moments and then John asks about Zivko, his thumb rubbing soothing circles along the inside of Sherlock's forearm. There's a patch of the fungal infection on Sherlock's right thigh and it's itching like mad, a counterpoint to the soothing movement of John's thumb. Sherlock surreptitiously scratches at it with the binding around his wrist. He takes a deep breath and lets it out.

"The second time I was raped was by a young guard. He didn't want to do it, but the other guards had locked us in a room and said we couldn't leave until he fucked me. He was a virgin and he wasn't gay—he wasn't even—" Sherlock stops before he starts crying.

"They forced him to rape you," John clarifies.

Sherlock nods. "The head guard, Danilo, was behind it all. He hated Zivko, was jealous of him because he had a famous father—his famous father who, incidentally, ran a human trafficking ring--who had given Zivko the guard duty in that hellhole _._

"And that fucking piece of  _shit_ guard, the one who raped me—it wasn't enough to humiliate Zivko by making him fuck a prisoner. He got all the other guards fired up about nepotism in the army. They were afraid of him and Zivko was an easy target.

"Danilo raped me again two weeks after Zivko and that's when he—he caused the anal fissure. A week later I found out Zivko had committed suicide. Four days after that, Mycroft was able to pull me out of Serbia. Zivko was only sixteen, John."

"Oh, Sherlock," John whispers.

He replaces his right hand on Sherlock's forearm with his left and then reaches his right hand up and puts it on the back of Sherlock's neck, his fingertips tracing little lines on his back.

"But I'm grateful he killed himself, John," Sherlock says, gritting his teeth against the tears piling up in his throat. "I don't want to be glad, but I am. I would've died there. I'm so relieved to be out of there, but a boy  _died_ for my freedom. "

"He didn't die  _for_ your freedom, Sherlock. And you're not  _glad_ he died, just because you're glad to be home."

"I fail to see the difference," Sherlock says, his tears momentarily on hold while he gears himself up for an argument.

"Being glad to be home doesn't automatically mean you're glad he died. Event A—his suicide—resulted in Event B. Your rescue. Could you have helped him?"

"I—I didn't—I  _hated_ being helpless! I hated watching  _grown men_ bullying this boy and not being able to do  _anything_ to help him because it meant drawing their attention to me. I was weak."

Sherlock drops his head into his hands and weeps. John's fingers card through his hair. John murmurs  _sh_ and  _it's gonna be okay_ and  _I know_. Sherlock knows they're meaningless words, the kinds of things people say when someone is bawling like a child, and he would've found them ridiculous eighteen months ago. Now, though, he takes great comfort in this soothing litany of meaningless words. It's not the words themselves that matter because they all mean the same thing—  _I'm right here with you._

~*~

"Sherlock," John says some time later, having returned to his chair. "About last night."

Sherlock groans in annoyance. "I know. It was a mistake, it'll never happen again, blah, blah, blah."

John frowns. "Why did you do it?"

"Why do you  _think_?" Sherlock asks him.

John rolls his eyes. "If I knew  _why_ , I wouldn't be asking the bloody question, would I?"

"I meant, what's your current hypothesis as to why?" Sherlock clarifies.

"You needed comfort? Maybe intimacy with someone you knew as a, uh, to re-establish control over your own sexuality after being—violated?"

John looks up at him with a pained expression. Sherlock smiles grimly. "That's pretty much exactly why."

"Ah," John says, nodding his head as though he expected that answer. He's frowning, though.

"I think the bigger question," Sherlock says. "Is why did  _you_ do it?"

John's face turns so red Sherlock wonders if there's actual heat coming off his skin.

"I didn't know how to stop you without hurting you," John says, staring at the floor.

"A pity fuck, then?" Sherlock sneers.

"No!" John's head whips up. "I meant  _physically_ I didn't know how to stop you and then—and then I didn't want to."

Sherlock's eyes snap to John's, but John is still staring at the floor.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I was so overwhelmed. You'd been dead for eighteen months and then there you were, needing to be patched up, needing  _me_ , and then before I knew it you had your hand wrapped around my, my—around  _me_ and it seemed like we were in a bubble where nothing else mattered and I just—I took advantage."

"You didn't take  _advantage_ , you idiot," Sherlock scoffs. "They did give you an actual  _medical_ degree, correct? Surely you can tell the difference between consensual and non-consensual sex."

"Oh, there's the real Sherlock," John says ruefully and shakes his head. At least he's meeting Sherlock's eyes now. "You know, the next time you want comfort, you could just ask for a hug."

"I didn't do it for comfort, John," Sherlock says and the smile on John's face fades. "I did it because I've wanted to do that for so long—wanted to kiss you and touch you for  _so long_ that the minute the opportunity arose, I snatched it, consequences be damned."

"So, you're saying—" John says, the words coming haltingly. "You're saying that you are sexually attracted to me?"

"Very good, John. Glad you can keep up."

"How long?" John asks. Sherlock can see tension build in his shoulders.

"I can't tell you when it first happened. It feels like it's always been there. When I came home I was going to tell you. How I felt."

"So, last night. Was that your way of telling me?" John asks, swallowing visibly. His face has paled but there are two red spots high on his cheeks and along his ears.

"Last night was me tossing my hat into the ring," Sherlock says. He brings his hands up, pressing his fingertips together.

" _Tossing your hat_ —what do you—"

John is clearly at a loss for words, which Sherlock finds adorable. He lets him struggle for a moment, but knowing John, he might just get up and walk off to make tea and never speak of it again, so Sherlock steps in to help him before he can run away.

"I'm in love with you, Dr. Watson, but you are currently embroiled in a romantic relationship with another man. So, I'm declaring my candidacy for the office of Dr. Watson's lover."

John's mouth is hanging open and he stares at Sherlock, his eyes reflecting both wonder and suspicion.

"You just told me the horrific story of, of being  _raped_ in Serbia and now you're telling me you want to be my, my—what, boyfriend?"

"You see now why I didn't want to share all that with you?" Sherlock takes a deep breath and then leans forward slightly towards John. "You're right, John. I  _am_ damaged, physically and emotionally. I  _am_ broken, physically and emotionally. And I welcome being handled a bit delicately, especially these first weeks as I'm still so physically frail.

"However, I am not one atom less the man I was when I left you behind. In fact, I didn't think it possible to love and want you  _more_ than I did then, but I find that I do. Last night was a result of three years of longing, John. Three years of wanting and not having and eighteen months out of those years, I was away from you and it was  _unbearable_."

"I—what do you want me to do?" John stutters, spreading his hands wide in defense.

"I want to know how you feel about me," Sherlock says and, even though he knows that John will avoid the truth, he still should give him the opportunity to say it.

"Well, you know, you're very attractive and before you left I'd had feelings about you, I thought I did, at any rate, but then you died and I—"

"And you found someone else," Sherlock says with only a slight hint of bitterness.

"I thought you were  _dead_ , Sherlock. As in  _never coming back_. Do you know how hard that was for me?"

"Oh, and it was so easy for me?" Sherlock snaps, gesturing at his bruised and undernourished body.

"I would've  _waited for you_!" John shouts, rising to his feet in a display of deep-seated emotion, startling Sherlock with the volume of his voice and the force of the feeling behind it. "All you had to do was tell me you were alive and I would've  _waited_ for you, Sherlock, for as long as it took! I would've died waiting for you if I'd only known  _you were fucking alive!_ You don't get to come in here with this—this  _shit_ you always bring upon yourself, this headlong rush into danger without thinking about the people you leave behind. You always get yourself fucked up and then you come to me, you expect me to be here to mop it all up, to stitch you up and make you better and you don't give a  _shit_ about me!"

John's chest is heaving with barely restrained anger and his eyes are sparkling and turning brighter blue as the tears gather and then drop down his cheeks.

"I would've waited for you," John whispers and shakes his head. His lower lip trembles and Sherlock stands up as fast as he can, which is not very fast, and goes to John and wraps his arms around him.

"One word, Sherlock,  _one word_ and I would've waited as long as it took," John says. "It's too late now."

His actions belie his words, though, as he presses his face against Sherlock's collarbone and wraps his hands around Sherlock's hips, avoiding the worst of Sherlock's back. Sherlock drops kisses onto John's head, the hair so much greyer than it was when he left. How many of those grey hairs grew out of John's sorrow?

"It's not too late," Sherlock murmurs against John's temple.

"I have—" John starts to say, but gets cut off by Sherlock.

"Yes, you have a—person."

"Gerald."

"Yes, you have a Gerald, but I still don't believe it's too late. I  _have_ to believe that there's still a chance for us to love each other the way we want to, the way we were  _meant_ to."

"What if I don't feel the same?" John asks, rubbing his nose along Sherlock's collarbone, breathing deeply as he goes. Sherlock's belly blooms with warmth.

"John," Sherlock says with an affectionate chuckle. "My skills of observation are as sharp as ever. It's written all over your body and in your eyes."

John murmurs a wordless agreement, but Sherlock seems to have lost him to his nosing exploration of Sherlock's bare chest. His hands draw open the front of Sherlock's dressing gown and he trails his lips and nose down Sherlock's chest and then to his stomach.

Abruptly, he kneels in front of Sherlock who gasps in surprise. John presses his face against Sherlock's abdomen, gripping his thighs tightly. He inhales deeply, eyes closed.

"You need a shower," he says, but doesn't immediately move. His eyes stay closed. "Let's get those stitches out and then get you into the shower. I'll shave you and by the time Gerald gets here—" at this he groans, dropping his hands from the back of Sherlock's thighs and sits back on his heels "—you'll be ready for a smoothie and anything else I can get you to eat and then I'm gonna drug you and put you to bed."

Sherlock pets John's hair and murmurs, "What will you tell him?"

"How did—forget it, stupid question. The answer's  _I don't know_. The truth? To let me sort you out and sort me out and then—I don't know."

"You won't end it with him?" Sherlock asks, his fingers pausing in their furrows.

"No!" John says, like Sherlock has suggested something that everyone knows is completely unacceptable. "I mean, I don't want to drag anything out, but Sherlock, you have to understand—he wasn't just a replacement. He wasn't just something to fill my time with while I waited for you to come back because—as I've pointed out many times—I didn't think you  _were_ coming back. We have a life together, Gerald and me. I  _love_ him."

"And me?" Sherlock asks, his fingers still ploughing rows through John's hair.

"You," John says and it almost sounds like an accusation. " _You_ are—you gave me my life back, Sherlock. I was broken until you found me. But I can't—I can't make decisions that will affect three people so much, when you've been home less than twenty-four hours, you know? I need time."

"No sex," Sherlock says, gently smacking John's head, which is still level with Sherlock's belly button.

"What?" John asks, looking up at him.

Sherlock lets out a grunt of sexual arousal at the sight of John on his knees looking up at him, even though John is frowning.

"If you can't decide right away, fine, but you can't sleep with both of us at the same time."

"I wasn't planning on sleeping with  _you_ anyway, Sherlock. In case you've forgotten, you've been tortured and—oh, let's not forget your wounded arse, so, no—I wasn't expecting to be fucking you any time soon."

John pushes himself up off the floor, his knees creaking, and goes into the kitchen and starts the kettle.

 _"Any time soon_ implies that there will  _eventually_ be a time where we'll be having sex," Sherlock points out, wrapping his dressing gown around himself and tying the sash as he follows John into the kitchen. “No sex with Gerald either, though.”

"Sherlock, please!" John hisses. "Do you know how hard it is to want you and to know what's happened to you and to feel like a dirty creeping pervert for still wanting you anyway?"

"Oh, for  _God's sake_ , John! This is why I didn't want to tell you!"

"A therapist would say you're sexualizing your  _platonic_ feelings for me because of the sexual trauma you endured and, quite frankly, I think it's a possibility—"

"Again,  _that's_ why I didn't want to tell you! You think I don't know my own feelings and desires?"

"—I wasn't finished! The point I'm trying to make is that we all need time! You need time to heal and I need time to work out how I feel and help you heal."

"What does Gerald need?" Sherlock asks with a twist of his lips.

"Probably for you to have stayed dead," John says and grins in spite of the subject matter.

Sherlock laughs deep enough that he groans in pain because of his ribs. All the shouting isn't helping any, either.

"Let's have a cup of tea and then I'm going to take out about seventy percent of the stitches in your back. It's been seven days and most of them are superficial except those four. They have dissolvable sutures on the inside and I want to make sure the outsides heal completely before I pull out the outside ones in case it undoes the inner stitches."

"I've always loved a bit of suturing with my tea," Sherlock says.

John laughs so hard, he bangs his elbow on the edge of the sink. Sherlock frowns at him in mock puzzlement and feels his heart flapping, climbing, catching the wind and soaring. John knows Sherlock loves him and—more importantly—John loves him back.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the plot thickens...

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, as always, to Jenn and Katie, Beta readers extraordinary. They keep me going.


End file.
